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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533180">have you ever thought just maybe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral'>antithestral</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Based on a Taylor Swift Song, CHOO CHOO MOTHERFUCKERS HERE COMES THE PINING EXPRESS, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Mutual Pining, Song: You Belong With Me (Taylor Swift), big quarantine vibes lol, i have cabin fever and my characters do too, so much fumkin angst lmao, they totally break up!!, this fic isn't geralt x yennefer friendly!!!!!!!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:49:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier has never actually spoken to the Extremely Hot Guy who lives in the building across from his — but sometimes they write each other messages on whiteboards, and sometimes Jaskier watches him take off his clothes in the evenings while digging bloody crescents into his palms, and sometimes Jaskier sits in the fire escape to play him sad love songs, and wonders when his life became a goddamn Taylor Swift music video.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>241</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6>i. [jaskier, or the one with the rolling stones]</h6><p>The hot guy in the next building is arguing with his girlfriend again. </p><p>Jaskier wonders if it’s creepy, that he knows that. He watches surreptitiously from his bedroom window, idly tuning his guitar, while the neighbour puts the phone on speaker while stripping out of his work clothes — plain black t-shirt and heavy, canvas pants, army surplus stuff, the kind you’d pick up at the local PX. His throat gets progressively drier as the pants come off — Jaskier isn’t sure what exactly it is the guy does, but he’s guessing its gym trainer or personal bodyguard to oil sheikhs or some kind of model-slash-stripper situation, because Jesus <em>Christ. </em></p><p>Jesus <em>Christ.</em></p><p>His fingers slip over the strings on a jarring note, and he jumps a little — God, is his <em>palm </em>sweating??? — before putting the guitar away as a bad job, to grab a whiteboard, and scrawl, <em>bad day? </em>before tucking it behind a curtain, right up against the windowpane and pulling up the tabs to an old Leonard Cohen classic.</p><p><em>ultimate-guitar </em>takes forever to load, and Jaskier strums a couple easy open chords, restlessly working through fingering exercises and arpeggios, old music lessons he thought he’d forgotten. When he looks up at the window across the gap between their two buildings, there’s a reply on the whiteboard there already, in a familiar longhand: <em>tired of the drama.</em></p><p>A little pang hits him. He grabs the guitar, and swings his feet out through the window into the fire escape once it's been opened up all the way, the spring air cold and crisp on his face. </p><p><em>any requests? </em>he writes.</p><p>Hot Guy sees the whiteboard, and grins a little, and Jaskier feels unreasonably proud of himself. Opens the window too. They’re far enough that they could call out to each other, but that feels like the quickest way to incur the wrath of all their neighbours at the same time — so they don’t.</p><p><em>anything, </em>he writes, pauses, grabs the whiteboard, writing furiously again, before Jaskier can see he’s added, <em>if u play a love song, i’ll have to kill you.</em></p><p>He laughs, shaking his head, and then hunches over the guitar, smiling helplessly. Discards <em>Hallelujah </em>and <em>Famous Blue Raincoat, </em>and then Cohen altogether, and then almost laughs again when he thinks of it.</p><p>“<em>‘I saw her today, at the reception,’</em>” Jaskier sings. He can see a couple more windows pop up a little as he works his way through the first verse of the Rolling Stones anthem, and that’s always nice to see, that New Yorkers don’t want to murder him to death for playing last-century soft rock at them at nine pm on a weeknight. That’s practically a declaration of undying love, in a place like Hell’s Kitchen, that’s what <em>that</em> is.</p><p>He doesn’t look up from the guitar though, not all the way until he hits the chorus. <em>‘You can’t always get what you want,’</em> he sings, hitting the chorus, and peeks across the gap — Hot Guy’s watching him through his window, a MacBook propped open in his lap, an eyebrow cocked and a faint smirk caught in the corner of his mouth. <em>‘No, you can’t always get what you want,’</em> Jaskier sings again, and Hot Oil Sheikh Bodyguard? Guy is shaking his head, and scrubbing his face tiredly, and looking down at his lap, and, <em>‘You can’t always get what you want,’</em> Jaskier repeats, and Hot Maybe Stripper! Guy is gripping the back of his neck and—</p><p>—and laughing. The sight fills him up with something indefinable — brilliant and warm — and it bleeds into the throat as he croons into the fading twilight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>but if you try sometimes, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>you just might find</em>
</p><p>
  <em>you get what you need</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<h6>ii. [geralt]</h6><p>The guy across the alley comes home a lot later tonight. Geralt’s living room and bedroom both look over the alley — it was part of the reason he got it so cheap, the lack of a view, and he doesn’t mind it, doesn’t spend enough time at home to care — so he can always see the moment he arrives.</p><p>That sounds stalker-y even in his <em>head. </em>Jesus. </p><p>He flips on TV and hits play on the last thing in his Netflix queue, a quietly soothing Attenborough docuseries that doesn’t annoy the living shit out of him. </p><p>Geralt watches surreptitiously through his window, when the musician trudges in, dumping his bags and his jacket, unwinding a long blue scarf from around his throat. It looks rich and soft, like a high-quality cashmere. He’s a study in contrasts, is Geralt’s musician: everything about him says broke college student — except the things that don’t. The black Gibson Les Paul he plays on, that Geralt knows retails for five figures. The expensive watch, the nice shoes, the few odd occasions when he’s seen his put on a — perfect, tailored, sleek, mouth-watering — tuxedo, and climb into a waiting limo downstairs, before heading off for destinations unknown. A mystery. </p><p>He must feel Geralt’s gaze on him; he looks up, blue eyes curious, before he relaxes and waggles his fingers in a half-hearted wave. Geralt nods back. Tries to look away when he starts changing — it’s a studio apartment, unlike Geralt’s one-bed, the guy’s wardrobe is right <em>there, </em>and he doesn't seem to be bothered by his — captive, transfixed — audience. </p><p>He yanks off his t-shirt over his head, and Geralt watches hungrily as miles of pale skin are revealed, the knobbing of his spine, the flex of muscles as his arms stretch up up <em>up</em>, and he can see it, suddenly, vividly, that spine arching up beneath him, those wrists pinned under his hands, that back glowing with sweat—</p><p><em>Ping, </em>says his phone cheerfully, and Geralt startles out of his reverie. There’s a message from Yennefer. He looks down at his lap, and the bulge of his thickening cock in his sweatpants, and feels a rush of vivid, scarlet shame. </p><p>His neck prickles, like he’s being watched. It feels— good. Fuck.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. </em>
</p><p>What the hell is <em>wrong </em>with him?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i did not at ALL expect that incredibly kind response to chapter 1 — it made me sincerely hesitate over posting chapter 2, because surely, SURELY nothing could live up to that, but  hell. maybe the enforced isolation will do terrible things to ur brains and make this seem good :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6>iii. [jaskier, or the one with avril lavigne]</h6><p><em>She</em> comes over that night. </p><p>It’s not the first time Jaskier has seen her — dark hair and pale eyes and those stunning curves, like she belongs on the centerfold of something really posh. They kiss in Hot Definitely Taken Definitely Straight Guy’s living room, and the way they look together is beautiful too, belongs in museums and, like, temple statuary. </p><p>It’s beautiful. They’re beautiful. Jaskier’s stomach feels sick anyway. </p><p>The curtains to the bedroom have been pulled shut, and Jaskier doesn’t want to examine how that makes him feel, so he drags himself to the fire escape and plays some vengeful Paramore. <em>Misery Business</em>, and <em>Decode</em>, a little <em>Ignorance</em>, indulges all the incredibly high school feelings bubbling up his chest. </p><p>The little golden-haired kid who lives in the flat above Hot — Taken!!! — Guy’s opens up her window, grinning at him. </p><p>“Avril Lavigne!” she calls out, even though the last good song Avril Lavigne wrote was before the kid was born. <em>It’s a </em>classic<em> for her, </em>Jaskier thinks with mounting horror, and then, <em>oh god am I… old?</em> before he relents with the opening chords to <em>Girlfriend</em>. </p><p>
  <em>hey, hey, you, you!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i don’t like your girlfriend!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>no way, no way</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i think you need a new one</em>
</p><p>The song sounds sadder on a lonely guitar, and Avril’s enthusiastic come-on acquires a haunting melancholy in the reverb. His conscience squirms at him. Jaskier tells it to shut up.</p>
<h6>iv. [geralt]</h6><p>Geralt trudges out to the window the next morning, throwing back the curtains to let in the weak grey sunlight. Across the way, he can see the singer through a closed window, bopping his head to music Geralt can’t hear, enthusiastically beating eggs in a bowl. There’s bacon crackling away on an induction pad, slices of bursting red tomato blackening in the grease, and coffee dripping into a percolator, and he can practically smell it, can taste it on his tongue. He sighs, stomach rumbling a little. He rubs it idly, lighting a cigarette and pushing open the window. It squeaks in the frame, and behind him, he can hear Yenn grumble and shift under the covers. </p><p>The air is bracing, and sucks in a deep, hot lungful of smoke, leaning over the edge. There is something intensely <em>watchable </em>about him, even with an appalling bedhead and in nothing more than a ratty, faded t-shirt and blue boxers covered in tiny… pineapples? and fuzzy grey socks on his feet. Something electric about his body, the way he holds himself, and moves, like a performer for an invisible crowd. His lips move the words of the song — and Geralt wishes for a brief, piercing moment that the windows were open, the gap was smaller, that he knew his name, that— that—</p><p>“Geralt?” Yenn mumbles sleepily from the bed, from his <em>bed, </em>and Geralt shuts his eyes, a hot wash of shame pooling in his chest. He takes a moment from before turning to her, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray by the window, and pasting on a pleasant expression that feels plastic and fake.</p><p>“Yeah, babe?”</p>
<h6>v. [jaskier, or the one with the white stripes]</h6><p>When Jaskier gets out of the town car, <em>she </em>is already there, leaning back against the cool, grey slate of the neighbouring building, tapping away on her phone. He pauses, struck, with the odd sense of worlds colliding rushing in his head. She’s even prettier up close, with that glossy, airbrushed loveliness of a Renaissance painting, a Bouguereau nude brought to life. Jaskier reaches back into the car, to grab his guitar case, with the lingering sense that he is somehow showing his throat to a looming predator — “Thanks, Freddie,” he calls out to the driver, waves goodbye to the team still in the limo, loudly discussing the details for the next shoot, before he straightens up again, and sees <em>her</em> again — and he tells himself to <em>move, </em>to stop fucking <em>staring, </em>like a total creeper—</p><p>She looks up, <em>oh crap, </em>and cocks her head at him, <em>does she know???? </em>and then looks at the building entrance behind him, knowledge slotting visibly into place when she says, “Oh, it’s <em>you.</em>”</p><p>“Um,” Jaskier manages. </p><p>“Whiteboard guy,” she says decisively. “Geralt’s mentioned you.”</p><p><em>he has? </em>and then, astonishing, the knowledge unfurling wings in pilot flight: <em>geralt.</em></p><p>“Yes,” he says. “That’s me. Geralt— he… mentioned me?”</p><p>She smiles tightly at him — it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes. Well. Geralt can be a bit… you know, <em>thick</em>, about things like that. He hasn’t realized how obvious you’re being.”</p><p><em>obvious. </em>The word is a shard between his ribs, catching in soft flesh.</p><p>She arches an eyebrow, faintly mocking. “You <em>do </em>realize you’re being obvious?”</p><p>Jaskier throat clenches shut.</p><p>“Oh dear,” she murmurs. “Well, best you found out from <em>someone</em>, I suppose. It’s become a little embarrassing, you <em>do</em> see that, don’t you? We’ve been together for years, and then you come along, panting for a little bite of… Well.” She chuckles. “Geralt doesn’t exactly do,” her eyes rake him over, dismissive and cutting, “<em>twinks.</em>”</p><p>Jaskier nods once, jerkily, and then spins on a heel and goes inside, and tries to ignore how much it feels like there are claws against his back and he’s running, <em>running, running away.</em></p><p>He drags himself into the fire escape with a bottle of Jack, and a cold black feeling around his heart, in the fading sunlight, the sky bleeding out its colors, and sits cross-legged on the metal struts. When his fingers move over the frets, he finds reverting to form, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath, staccato, palm-muted chords, low, harsh refrains from <em>Children of the Grave</em> and <em>Houses of the Holy. </em></p><p>The window to <em>Geralt’s </em>bedroom is open tonight, and that feels like a message, from her to him, a tiny square of muted glow eight feet across from him, radiating her vindictiveness. So he watches them kiss — because surely that’s why it’s been left open tonight, for him to watch. He watches, it’s what she wants of him, and it’s… what he wants too — sees <em>Geralt </em>pin her to wall, and their clothes peel off, and still Jaskier sings, music turning dirtier, angrier, sloppy on the downstrum.</p><p>The reverb is moody and low in the air around him, clanging off stone walls and steel joinery, and he can see <em>her</em> catch Jaskier’s eyes over the curve of his shoulder, pale in the moonlight, rippling with muscle, and her smile comes catlike and cruel, and he’s sick with himself, sick with this unspent longing.</p><p>And in that moment, the anger slips away, that moment when he needs it the most, and he’s left with no one to talk to, nothing but the air.</p><p>
  <em>i saw you standing in the corner</em>
</p><p>
  <em>on the edge of a burning light</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i saw you standing in the corner</em>
</p><p>
  <em>come to me again </em>
</p><p>
  <em>in the cold, cold night</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6>vi. [geralt]</h6><p>The whole weekend that Yenn spends at Geralt’s, she’s moody and abrasive, by turns sweltering heat and frigid coolness. Exhausting. Even the sex seems edgy somehow — nothing mellows her out, and Geralt is tired of her, tired and strung out, like he’s on a bad trip and can’t come down. He smokes his way through three packs in as many days, and has dreams about choking on ash. </p><p>Sometimes, he catches her staring out the windows, her fingers curled up and her knuckles white. </p><p><em>‘What are you thinking of?’</em> he wonders, and like she can hear him, Yennefer looks up. “I’ve never heard your musician play,” she says to him, out of the blue. Geralt feels jarred, like he’s caught in an avalanche. </p><p><em>Your </em>musician, she says, and Geralt wants to insist, <em>he’s not mine. </em></p><p>“No,” he replies, instead. Somehow, he feels, the other thing would be too revealing. <em>He’s not mine, </em>he would say out loud, and <em>not yet, </em>he would think in his head, and Yennefer would— would <em>know</em>. “I guess you haven’t.”</p><p><em>He never plays when you’re visiting, </em>Geralt realizes, and his stomach turns tight and uncomfortable at the thought. Like spotting a twilit path in a dark forest, something fae and wild and beautiful at its end, and Geralt finds he isn’t ready to walk down that road. Not yet. <em>Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,</em> Geralt thinks, <em>and I found I was afraid.</em></p><p>“Is he any good?” Yennefer asks him, and her lavender eyes are sharp on him, like knives. What does she see?</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says shortly, and it feels like he’s whispered a secret she shouldn’t have ever discovered.</p><p>When Monday rolls around and she leaves, he is grateful, and guilty because of it. <em>They can’t keep going like this for much longer,</em> says that dark voice in the back of his head.<em> The centre cannot hold. </em>He finds the last of his cigarettes instead, pushes open the living room windows, puts on the coffee, and watches the sky lighten, turn orange, shot through with gold. A tinny radio plays from the musician’s open windows from across the way — he catches faint strains of<em> The Middle </em>and smiles. </p><p>It’s the wake-up playlist, Geralt’s heard it before, all bouncy punk rock, <em>Fall Out Boy </em>and <em>Green Day, Sum 41 </em>and even <em>The Clash, </em>a big fuck-you to the Man. He pours coffee into a Kaer Morhen travel mug, and wonders about a missing name, and somehow, strangely, it doesn’t hurt. </p><p><em>everything, everything will be alright </em>indeed.</p><h6>vii. [jaskier, or the one with blackstreet (and chris isaak, and ed sheeran and passenger, sort of)]</h6><p>Jaskier gets home early on a Thursday afternoon, just after the lunch rush, the sky heavy with dark storm clouds, and parks himself in the fire escape with his laptop, the power cord trailing back into his tiny hobbit hole of a flat, breathing the ozone-heavy stink in the air. He pulls up GarageBand, his beat-up old Mac humming angrily at him in protest. While the program loads, his eyes wander, up to the sky, his head laid back against the cool, damp brickwork, through the metal struts, silver-grey and rusting. The juxtaposition is pretty, but Jaskier’s gaze skitters over it, over to the next building, compulsive and shameful, Pavlovian in its habit, but—</p><p>Movement at the window in the upstairs flat, and his eyes catch and stall — a flash of bright-gold hair, and there’s the kid in her window bay seat, and there’s a <em>boy</em> sitting next to her, <em>o-ho!</em> and they’re leaning close, slowly now, painfully awkward, and their lips catch and press, painfully sweet. </p><p>Jaskier looks away, smiling to himself. There’s very little in his repertoire that’s got this kind of sugar in it, and he hums a little Etta James until Garageband is behaving well enough to deal with, plugging in his headphones and getting to work.</p><p>He looks up when the screen starts blurring in his vision, falling apart into uncooperative notes, and finds that the kid is sitting by herself now, head leaned back against a wall, watching him through drowsy, slitted eyes.</p><p>Jaskier grins — pulls off his earphones and swaps out the laptop for the guitar, picking a deep, frenetic bassline, going for broke on his best Chris Isaak —</p><p>
  <em>baby did a bad, bad thing</em>
</p><p>
  <em>baby did a bad, bad thing</em>
</p><p>
  <em>baby did a— </em>
</p><p>The window slips up, mid-phrase — she scowls the moment she realizes what he’s singing, and then Jaskier’s being pelted with little scraps of notebook paper, a fourteen year-old pixie sprite scowling bloody murder at him from on high, as he vamps up the intro, waggling his eyebrows at her, making it ludicrous and silly and fun, instead of the dirty bluesy drawl it’s supposed to be.</p><p>They’re both grinning by the time it ends, and it’s a beautiful blue afternoon, and he croons,</p><p>
  <em>shawty get down, good lord</em>
</p><p><em>thump-thump, </em>comes the sound from above, and he sees the kid, sitting at her window, and that… sounded like a cajon drum?</p><p>
  <em>baby got ‘em open all over town</em>
</p><p><em>thump-thump, </em>comes the percussive one-two from above, and she <em>plays, </em>Jaskier realizes, at least a little bit, at-least well enough to give him a little counterbeat.</p><p>
  <em>strictly biz, she don’t play around</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thump</em>
</p><p>
  <em>cover much ground, got game by the pound</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thump-thump</em>
</p><p>
  <em>getting paid is her forte, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>thump</em>
</p><p>
  <em>each and every day</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thump</em>
</p><p>
  <em>true player way,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thump</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i can’t get her out of my mind</em>
</p><p><em>“Say what?”</em> she scats, high and breathy in the back, and Jaskier grins wider, astonished.</p><p>
  <em>think about the girl all the time</em>
</p><p><em>“Well, well,” </em>comes the reply.</p><p>
  <em>east side to the west side</em>
</p><p>
  <em>pushin phat rides, ain’t no surprise</em>
</p><p>
  <em>she got tricks in the stash</em>
</p><p>
  <em>stacking up the cash</em>
</p><p>
  <em>fast when it comes to the gas</em>
</p><p>and she threads their voice together for the chorus, and they’re off to the races, and Jaskier feels like he’s flying.</p><h6>viii. [geralt]</h6><p>Geralt listens to him sing from behind closed curtains, the window opened only a crack, astonished when Ciri joins in, when she eats up the whole of the second verse, her voice fine and rich, never going thin when it trips into a higher octave. </p><p>He’s never heard the musician sound so free, so… happy, his voice bright and lovely and devoid of the ache that had poisoend it the last time he sang, all sex and quiet desolation.</p><p>The whiteboard is wiped clean, and its blank face stares at him, demanding words. But Geralt’s never been good with words — it was never required of him, and the skill of it lies weak and stiff, like an unused muscle. </p><p><em>you sound beautiful, </em>he wants to say, or maybe, <em>sometimes i want so desperately to know i can’t breathe, </em>or, <em>why do you never sound happy when you sing to me? </em></p><p>His bedroom is grey and silent, and has no answers. He picks up the whiteboard. </p><p><em>did you know she could sing like that? </em>he scrawls, sticking it next to the windowglass, because little kids are an easy, safe topic, unfraught with all the things warring inside his head. <em>coward</em>, says the voice Geralt is pretending not to hear.</p><p>He forces himself to get up and make some coffee, so he won’t stare desperately out of the window for a reply that might not come. But it does. It does. </p><p>
  <em>no! wasnt she great?</em>
</p><p>Geralt shoves open the curtains — surely, there’s no point hiding now.</p><p><em>you both were, </em>he replies, too honest, feeling unaccountably naked. </p><p>The musician stills when he reads Gearlt’s reposne, every line of him going perfectly motionless. His eyes flick to meet Geralt’s, and his fingers have gone white where they grip the guitar, a flush of bright red burning on his cheeks. <em>beautiful, </em>Geralt thinks, sick with desire. All of that last weekend, when Yennefer was naked and under him, soft and lovely, something from a dream, he hadn’t felt <em>this, </em>not even a fraction of <em>this</em>, not even a bare approximation. </p><p>
  <em>why is it you. what is it about you.</em>
</p><p>There’s a light flashing on his muted phone screen, and it catches his eye, insistent blue sirens in the darkness — a message from Yennefer. </p><p><em>we need to talk, </em>reads the message preview, and lead condenses in his gut. He pulls the curtains shut again, and lingers over his phone. Geralt isn’t sure how long he stays like that, caught in fugue, and the first time the notes pick gently into the evening, he misses them almost entirely, catching it on the repeat, and hooks grasp at his throat then, sink hungry claws of desire into his chest when he recognizes the song — more Chris Isaak, but this is of another breed altogether, not meant for little girls discovering the first blush of romance. This is black with yearning, with embers of lonely desire, and curls in through his body like smoke.</p><p>
  <em>i'd never dreamed that i'd meet somebody like you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and i'd never dreamed that i'd lose somebody like you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>no, i don't want to fall in love</em>
</p><p>
  <em>no, i don't want to fall in love</em>
</p><p>
  <em>with you</em>
</p><p>Yennefer is right. They need to talk.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! remember to subscribe if you'd like to be notified when this is updated, and hit kudos if you liked it &lt;3</p><p>find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur</p></blockquote></div></div>
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